“Which was it?”
“That merry Irish-looking child. I don’t know her name.”
“Oh! it is a real charming Irish name, Una M’Carthy. I am so glad you did it, Flora. I hope they were ashamed.”
“I doubt whether it will do good. We are sure of our station and can do anything—they are struggling to be ladies.”
“But we ought not to talk of them any more, Flora; here we are almost at the churchyard.”
The Tuesday of this week was appointed for the visit of the London surgeon, Sir Matthew Fleet, and the expectation caused Dr. May to talk much to Margaret of old times, and the days of his courtship, when it had been his favourite project that his friend and fellow-student should marry Flora Mackenzie, and there had been a promising degree of liking, but “Mat” had been obliged to be prudent, and had ended by never marrying at all. This the doctor, as well as his daughters, believed was for the sake of Aunt Flora, and thus the girls were a good deal excited about his coming, almost as much on his own account, as because they considered him as the arbiter of Margaret’s fate. He only came in time for a seven o’clock dinner, and Margaret did not see him that night, but heard enough from her sisters, when they came up to tell the history of their guest, and of the first set dinner when Flora had acted as lady of the house. The dinner it appeared had gone off very well. Flora had managed admirably, and the only mishap was some awkward carving of Ethel’s which had caused the dish to be changed with Norman. As to the guest, Flora said he was very good-looking and agreeable. Ethel abruptly pronounced, “I am very glad Aunt Flora married Uncle Arnott instead.”
“I can’t think why,” said Flora. “I never saw a person of pleasanter manners.”
“Did they talk of old times?” said Margaret.
“No,” said Ethel; “that was the thing.”
“You would not have them talk of those matters in the middle of dinner,” said Flora.